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A Child of Various Tongues

My Mum is driving. Her skinny body sinks into the leather seats as she takes control of the vehicle. When we turn onto the half-murrum,

Dreamers I

The streets of Oklahoma were pitch-dark, I thought the power was gone. How come these gringos don’t use light poles? I asked. Saturday at noon.

This is what war does—

This is what war does— to women— makes them warriors— cuts their breasts stops the gushing of their wombs— changes their nails to bayonets— Their

Necessary Ingredients 1-2-3

Artist Statement: Sinejan Kılıç Buchina has for the last several years been exhaustively working on a series focused on time, material growth and social diaspora.

Soy Güera

Mi corazon, an ivory-veined granite rock tossed into the Rio Grande moons ago. I want to float up, pierce the muddied waters like a machete

Riverbend

There are hidden pieces of bone in my mother’s breath: she spat out fragments of history for her children to augur. The mystery of my

Humo

Humo                                               Somos el

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